Kiss It Better
by PensPencilsAndKeyboards
Summary: Sam's having a hard time dealing with Jess' death, and his head isn't exactly in the game. Will this lead to issues later on? Set during season 1, sometime anytime. WINCEST, rated M for a reason. Consider yourself warned.
1. Chapter 1

Sam stared blankly at the laptop screen, not even trying to pay attention anymore. He could only look at newspaper stories and cult websites for so long before his mind started to wander. The hunt for their dad had hit a dead end and now the two brothers were holed up in a ramshackle motel, waiting for a sign, for _anything_ to lead them on.

While Dean had taken a long, hot shower, Sam browsed the web trying to find a hunt for them to go on to take their mind off things. He was sure Dean wasn't saving any hot water for him. He sighed and stretched out his long limbs, closing the laptop and rubbing his eyes tiredly. Walking toward the bathroom door, he banged his fist roughly on the old wood.

"Time to get out, princess," he raised his voice and was greeted with a colorful curse, muffled by the spray of the shower. The taps shut off soon after. Sam was actually surprised Dean obeyed. The older Winchester flipped open the door, wearing a threadbare towel around his hips and a scowl on his face.

"The hell do you want, Sammy?" Dean said oh so graciously. Sam wondered what had made Dean so cranky lately. It was even worse than what he usually had to put up with, and it pissed Sam off right then.

"A shower," he said, tossing an exasperated look Dean's way. That was when his stomach turned barely noticeably.

Sam had seen Dean naked or close to it many times in the past. They were brothers after all, and it was bound to happen every once in a while. But maybe it was the fact that Sam hadn't seen him in years that he was suddenly uncomfortable. It barely registered with Sam that Dean was saying something to him.

"Um, what?" he said dumbly.

"I said give me five minutes," Dean said impatiently. Then, in a quieter voice, "Get some sleep, Sam. You look like you need it." Then the door was shut in Sam's face.

He knew he looked like hell. He also knew that he would be getting almost no sleep tonight, too. Jess might be dead, but she was still very much alive in his dreams, in his subconscious, in the backs of his eyes and threaded in his voice. She kept him awake long after Dean passed out, his snoring a background noise to all the memories that played through Sam's head each night.

Before his thoughts could spiral down that beaten path again, he changed course and went back to the computer to see if he could concentrate again.

* * *

Sam watched in mild disgust as Dean seemingly shoved pancakes and sausage in his face as fast as he could. It was kind of amazing, Sam thought, how he could eat whatever he wanted while sitting behind the wheel the majority of the day and still stay fit and healthy.

Sam realized he was staring when Dean shot him a funny look and quickly averted his eyes.

"So, talk to me. What're we dealing with here?" Dean said around a mouthful of food. The older of the brothers noticed how Sam seemed to jolt into action after spacing out. He'd been doing that a lot recently, and it was starting to grate on Dean's nerves. Sam was going to get himself killed if he spaced out at the wrong time.

"Well, we've got some guy, late twenties, no kids, widower, goes to church, found in-"

"Wait, back up," Dean interrupted. "A widower? In his late twenties?" He shook his head. "Getting chained down so early in life..."

Sam ignored him and kept reading from the newspaper clip he pulled up on the laptop. "Earl McMaine, 27, found dead in the bathtub. He drowned." At Dean's no shit look, Sam elaborated.

"The shower head was running, not the faucet."

"Maybe the guy forgot how to breathe?" suggested Dean helpfully. Sam rolled his eyes and rubbed at them tiredly.

"Yeah, maybe. Look, we're suiting up. Gonna go check out the body. You talk to the neighbors or something, see what's up."

Sam left as fast as he could, not letting Dean get out more than a couple uttered words.

* * *

The body was staring lifelessly at the white ceiling, dim brown eyes reflecting Sam's face as he examined the cadaver for any clues as to what could have killed him. Nothing was out of the ordinary, as far as he could tell. No abrasions, cuts, weird bite marks, or even signs of a struggle of any kind. Sam was baffled, to say the least. Nobody drowns in the shower, he was sure.

"Are there any signs that point toward foul play?" he asked the coroner, Dr. Weiss. The doctor shook his head, explaining that the flood of water he had to extract from Earl's lungs was what did him in. Suddenly, Sam's pocket vibrated, and he took out his phone, flipping it open.

"Another body found today," was Dean's way of greeting. He sounded impatient, hurried, as if he had something else to do. Sam decided to make it brief.

"Tell me."

Dean quickly filled him in on the details, his voice getting quicker and quicker each passing second. Sam wondered what had him so anxious to get off the phone.

He wondered if it had anything to do with him.

* * *

The lumpy motel bed felt heavenly as Sam plopped down onto it, sighing tiredly. He'd had a long day. Dean was due to be back any minute now, since they'd agreed to meet up at the motel to share what they'd learned about the case.

The second body that Dean had heard about turned out to be twenty two year old Annie Foster, a crack addict living in one of the seedier parts of the town they were currently in. She'd had time to ripen before the authorities found her, too, and when Sam walked into her small trailer, the smell had hit him like a semi truck. But it wasn't the smell that had him high-tailing it out of there less than five minutes after he'd arrived. No, she looked strikingly like Jess.

Blonde hair, streaked with lowlights, tumbled out of a messy braid at the nape of her neck. Little ringlets framed her gaunt, blood-shot face, and _yes_ , a damn _beauty mark_. All at once, Sam had heard her sweet voice at the back of his mind, seen her beautiful face in Annie's bulging, lifeless eyes. Sam barely registered the rainbow colored toy snake wrapped around her throat or the thin trail of dried blood coming from her mouth. He saw the little gold cross necklace, almost a replica of the one his Jess wore...

He got away as fast as he could, heart hammering painfully in his chest.

And now he was lying there, trying to forcibly control his breathing, because it was _her_ , and the guilt and the pain were threatening to bash him into nothing. For possibly the hundredth time, he replayed the scene in his mind, feeling the peace of knowing she was there, and then the horror of knowing that she wasn't.

He saw her on the ceiling of the motel room. Dripping blood on his face. _Again_. Sam felt the warmth and the wetness of her blood, and saw her pained, disbelieving face. She was still _alive_ when she burned.

Then the door to the motel room opened and in walked Dean, still in his suit, looking ragged. He went to the small table in the kitchenette, loosening his tie and setting his coat down, but froze when he saw Sam's face.

"Dude… are you crying?" His voice was a weird mix between disbelief and concern. Sam reached up and touched his own face, feeling Jess' blood, and pulling away his hand to see that it was just tears. Just tears. Jess was already long gone.

"I- Yeah, I don't know," Sam said, relieved. He went and sat down at the table, more than ready to put the whole scene out of his mind for a while.

"It's Jess, isn't it?" Dean's voice was uncharacteristically quiet. Sam froze in the middle of getting his laptop out.

"That's over and done with," he said just as quietly.

"But you-"

"Leave it," Sam said, flipping his wrist in a vaguely submissive gesture. His tone was perhaps a bit harsher than he meant it to be.

Thankfully, Dean let it be, and dished on the case they were working on, though he was eyeing the younger Winchester suspiciously.

"Apparently, the first vic's wife died only a year ago. Went to swim with the fishes in a boating trip gone bad. Guy never really got over it. And get this," Dean said, perking up minutely. "The two vics were related. Apparently they were nephews or something."

"Well, Annie didn't seem the family type. Her house had nothing, not even a family picture. Do you think bad blood plays a part in this?"

"Could be," Dean said, scratching at his chiseled jaw thoughtfully. "How'd the second chick get killed?"

"Strangled by a children's toy. If she had kids, wouldn't they have found the body sooner than the cops did?" Sam said, searching for any files on the woman.

A couple minutes later, Sam found what he was looking for. "Hey," he raised his voice. Dean came over, now dressed in a loose t-shirt and jeans, and stood behind Sam to lean down and look at the computer screen. Sam's stomach roiled at the close proximity, and he had to wonder what exactly was causing this uneasiness when it came to the older brother. He cleared his throat and spoke.

"Apparently, Annie Foster did have kids. Four of them. One died, and the other three were put into foster care." It explained the toy snake. And her crack addiction explained why the kids were taken out of her care. Sam could practically hear the gears turning in Dean's head, figuring it out.

"How'd the one kid die?"

Sam did some more poking around through police files, pointedly ignoring Dean's head hovering over his shoulder. Eventually he came to the right file. "The youngest of the four kids died of asphyxiation."

"Ass what?"

"Asphyxiation, meaning the kid choked to death. Went to sleep, found the next morning with his face in the pillow, dead." Sam's stomach did a little flop. He hated hearing about stuff happening to kids. It just wasn't right.

"You mean kind of like what happened to the mom," Dean said it as a statement, and Sam nodded.

"And," Sam picked up. "Like the first victim, drowning shortly after his wife drowned in the lake."

"Vengeful spirit?" Dean bounced ideas off Sam.

"Yeah, but how are we going to find the wife's body? It's probably at the bottom of the lake by now."

"I don't know, but I'm hitting the sack," Dean said tiredly. He looked as worn down as Sam probably did. There were dark smudges under his brilliant green eyes, and he looked older than he should have. He turned his back toward the younger brother and tossed over his shoulder, "Get some sleep, Sammy. Long day tomorrow."


	2. Chapter 2

Sam ran thin fingers through his wild mop of hair. How anyone took him for a cop or FBI agent or anything had the younger brother confused. His hair was untamable; surely that wasn't code. He'd thought about cutting it, but remembered how Dean liked to ruffle it, or run his fingers through it whenever he was trying to make Sam feel better.

Sam absently twirled his fingers through the ends of his mane as he waited for Dean to get back to their craptastic motel room. He'd come across a crime scene, and another body was found. It was the third victim, the third one to have died an unusual death. Mr. Issac Gorran, 43, found dead from a heart attack. He was an Average Joe, except that he had a treadmill in the living room and a stack of Men's Health magazines and a Bible on the coffee table. He was, as the police at the crime scene put it, as healthy as a horse.

Sam heard a key being inserted into a lock and a moment later Dean was standing in the doorway.

"Hey," he said by way of greeting, and quickly filled Dean in on the third victim.

"The first two vics had the death of a family member in their history books. This guy check out?" Dean said, rummaging around in the small fridge. His shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the fabric clinging and revealing the lean muscles shifting beneath it. Sam stared. Since when did Dean ever work out? Solid muscle like that didn't come from nothing.

"Yeah. Issac's aunt died a couple months ago."

"Let me guess. This guy part of the Brady Bunch?"

"That's the thing," Sam said. "I looked through all their family trees. This last guy isn't even remotely related to the other two."

"So, other than dead relatives and a similar untimely death, what are we going on?"

Sam shook his head, thinking. If it weren't for the circumstances of their deaths, and that all three people had dead relatives who'd died the exact same way, he would assume that this had nothing to do with them. He was stuck.

"I don't know, but I'm talking to Annie's kids tomorrow to see if I can get anything else."

* * *

Later that night, Sam listened to the steady breathing of his older brother. Each soft snore was an audible confirmation that Dean was still alive, that he was still here, and that Sam wasn't alone.

That everyone around Sam didn't have to die.

Lately, it was times like these that really kept Sam sane, kept him from thinking about the love of his life every minute of every day. Sam had once thought that eventually he would get tired of the cycle of guilt and sadness and pain. That was a month ago, at least. He hadn't grown out of it, hadn't moved on yet.

Sam rolled onto his side facing Dean, and grimaced as his cheek squished into the wet pillow. No, the only thing he was tired of was waking up with puffy eyes and a headache.

He pictured her in his mind, singing in the kitchen of their small apartment. She loved to sing, especially when she thought nobody was around, and she had a voice as beautiful as her face. Sam had once thought about proposing to her when she was in the middle of singing one of her favorite songs, and making that song the one that they would play at their wedding.

Another tear rolled from his eye and across his nose to land on the already wet pillow. He listened to Dean breathe, praying to God that he would be able to get some sleep.

* * *

Sam yawned as he sat in the DHS office building, waiting for Elizabeth, Sean, and Nathan Foster to show up. He rubbed his sore eyes tiredly, running the list of questions he had to ask the kids through his head.

"Mr. Menza," a social worker called Sam. She was an average woman, mid-thirties with dark brown hair and too much makeup. She had three kids behind her. She introduced the oldest sibling first.

Elizabeth had intelligent green eyes and a deep scowl that suggested that she had gone through situations similar to this far too many times. The caseworker introduced her as Liz. She was only 16, but she looked so much like her mother it hurt. Sean was the second oldest, a broody 14 year old that hunched his shoulders and avoided eye contact as much as possible. And Nathan was a blonde haired, blue eyed little 10 year old with a smile big enough to show all his teeth.

Elizabeth was first. Sam learned that it wasn't just drug abuse that put the kids into this situation, and that Annie had a long history of abusing her kids and her boyfriends, and that the men had a habit of abusing her back. Elizabeth was hesitant to spill anything at first, but then she started telling Sam everything, and despite all that her mother had done to her, the 16 year old still mourned her death. Sam was reluctant to interview the other two kids.

Sean had declined questioning, sitting in the corner and studiously ignoring everyone around him when they tried talking to him. He'd talked to Nathan, when the boy wasn't playing with the books stacked on the small table in the middle of the room. Sam learned from Nathan, amidst tears and sniffles, that he was the one to pick up the phone and call 911 when he found Steven, the youngest brother, dead, and that it was the phone call that had the kids taken out of the home when the police came. Sam offered the boy a tissue, mumbling a heartfelt "I'm sorry" and looking once more at Sean.

Sean finally caved, and sat on the chair farthest away from where Sam was sitting. He was nervous, biting his lip and picking at a frayed edge of the chair he was sitting on.

"I'm sorry," Sam started. "About your mother's death. I really am."

"I'm not," Sean said only loud enough for Sam to hear. The venom in the kid's voice made his eyebrows draw together.

"Why not?" Sam said, baffled. After that, Sean clammed up and glared at Sam for another five minutes, while Sam tried to convince him to elaborate.

Sam threw up his best puppy dog eyes and tried again.

"She must have done something really bad for you to feel that way about her death."

The statement made Sean's head come up and he stared into Sam's eyes and said, "yeah, she did."

"What'd she do?" Sam tried. "If you think I'm writing this down in some report, or that I'm telling this to some counselor, I'm not. Promise."

Sean leveled a glare at him again, and Sam wondered how he was pissing the kid off. Finally, _finally_ , Sean spilled what he'd been trying to hide. He looked around and, apparently satisfied that Elizabeth and Nathan were preoccupied in another room, began to talk.

"It was that night," he started, and Sam knew exactly which night he was talking about. His stomach clenched a little as Sean went on.

"I woke up to a weird noise, and just kind of laid there. The clock said it was about three in the morning. I heard the noise again, a really high-pitched, muffled noise. I peeked out of my blanket, and across from me, that bitch was standing next to little Stevie's bed, smooshing his head down into the pillow. Stevie was making all kinds of noises, thrashing about..."

By this time, Sean had tears spilling down his cheeks, and he was wringing his hands roughly. His red face was downcast, hidden by his dark hair. Sam felt his heart go out to the young boy, and at the same time an icy horror gripped his chest, at Annie, at her actions.

"I didn't get up, I didn't do anything..." Sean sobbed quietly. "If she knew I saw, she would have suffocated me too." _Hic_. "But Stevie..."

Sam got up and kneeled down next to Sean, placing a box of tissues in front of him on the table. He hesitantly put a hand on the kid's shoulder, and spoke quietly.

"I've been in your shoes, Sean. It's normal to want to do something to help, even if you can't. But you did nothing wrong. You're right; you would've been hurt too if you had done anything."

"You don't understand," Sean said dejectedly, miserably. "It's my fault Steven is dead. I should've done something."

"No, it's Annie's fault Steven is dead," Sam said softly. "And when you decide to forgive yourself, you can start focusing on other things, like your two other siblings."

With one last pat on the shoulder, Sam left the room, telling the caseworker he was done and making a hasty exit.

* * *

"You're kidding me," Dean said incredulously, after Sam had told him the story Sean had told him. Dean looked livid. "To a damn _kid_..."

"Yeah, and you know the first victim? How much you want to bet that his wife's accident wasn't an accident at all?" Sam said, passing Dean a beer from the fridge. Dean took the beer, then jerked his hand away quickly. The beer dropped to the floor, and the bottle shattered. Beer and brown glass spread across the floor and splashed onto Sam's pants.

"What the hell?" Sam said, cursing softly as he went to get a damp rag. He didn't see the weird look pass Dean's face when he turned his back. He returned and started wiping at the wet mess all over the tile floor when he felt a hand on his shoulder pushing him back. A jolt went through his body, starting at the point of contact, but before he could dwell on it, Dean was there, taking the rag from him and _when had the rag gotten blood on it?_

"Way to go, Sammy," Dean said, and Sam loved it when he used his nickname. "How'd you manage to cut yourself wiping up broken glass?"

Sam didn't even feel the cut yet, and it wasn't deep, yet Dean was getting up and retrieving a first aid kit from one of his bags. Sam stayed crouched on the floor, and when Dean bent down to clean the blood off his index finger, his warm breath ruffled the front of Sam's hair. Goosebumps spread down his arms, and before Sam started freaking out he righted himself and stepped out of Dean's personal space.

"It's a cut, not a battle wound," he said, and _thank god_ his voice was perfectly steady.

Dean's cheeks pinked a bit when he said, "Yeah, but it's my fault you klutzed out in the first place."

"I don't think I'm bleeding out. I'll be fine." And with that said, he spun away and locked himself in the bathroom, leaving a flustered Dean standing in the living room, with nothing to say for once.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean opened his eyes slowly, coming to consciousness. Despite his character, he was usually an up-and-at-em morning person. But today he was dead tired.

He'd stayed awake half the night, hearing Sam toss and turn for a couple hours before finally falling asleep. Dean had intended on following after him, but soon Sam was twitching and thrashing around on the bed, a telltale sign that he was having another nightmare. He'd jumped up out of bed and shook Sam awake before it got too bad, and when Sam had fallen asleep later that night, Dean was woken up to the sound of Sam having another one.

Now he looked at his little brother. It was rare, nowadays, to see Sam sleeping peacefully, yet he was. Only a couple feet away, sprawled on the other mattress in the room, he was snoring softly. His hair was askew and swept back away from his face, and his long eyelashes fluttered against the dark circles under his eyes. His mouth was slightly open, and a pink tongue was barely visible inside. But he still had a slight frown on his face.

Dean stopped staring at Sam and got up as quietly as he could, preparing to go out and get some breakfast, when Sam sighed and mumbled something that sounded a lot like Dean's name. Dean paused, and turned, expecting Sam to be awake, but he wasn't.

That was when he noticed the hard on that Sam was sporting. Dean's stomach started doing funny little things, his insides tying into knots and squirming when he inched closer to the bed. Sam had thrown off the covers in the middle of the night, and his 22 year old body was clad in nothing but a pair of light blue boxers and a baggy white t-shirt. Sam, still deeply asleep, sighed again and this time when he mumbled breathlessly, it made Dean flinch.

"Dean..."

The older Winchester's stomach roiled at the _wrongness_ of the whole situation, and at the fact that he wasn't revolted. His mind tried reasoning. Maybe Sam was having a wet dream, but then started dreaming of something else entirely, something that had nothing to do with sex, like _Dean_. But it was all blown away the moment Sam groaned, barely audibly.

"Shit… what the hell?" Dean cursed softly as he tiptoed away again. The motel room felt even smaller than it should have, and everything felt stuffy. The situation was doing things to him that he wasn't all that comfortable with. He bolted as quietly as he could. There was no way in hell he was going to be there when Sam woke, sticky and aroused.

* * *

Sam groaned, sitting up slowly as his muscles ached and stretched. He looked over at the alarm clock on the small table next to his bed. It was almost noon. Muttering a curse and running a hand through his serious bed head, he hauled his lanky limbs up from the mattress and stretched.

He didn't think he'd had a good night's sleep in months, and the after-effects of sleeping 14 hours straight left him groggy and sluggish, wanting to crash again. He grimaced as he felt a drying spot on his boxers, and felt filthy. He took a quick shower and when he exited the bathroom, he saw that Dean had returned.

"Hey," he said, walking over. Dean mumbled a reply but didn't look at him. He had a fast food bag in his hand and he pushed a grease spotted paper box across the table for Sam.

"Another guy dead," he said, taking a bite of his oversized cheeseburger. He closed his eyes and nodded appreciatively at the taste, then talked around his mouthful of food, much to Sam's disgust.

"Bernie Kendall, age 65. Fell into a coma, was rushed to the hospital, and died not even an hour later. Already interviewed one of his sons, his neighbors… No wife, though. Went into a coma, never woke up. Oh, and get this," Dean said, mouth now empty. "He went to the same church as the first vic. Think that might be impo-" He broke off as the temperature plummeted in their small motel room, and his breath fogged out.

Oh shit.

The brothers had two seconds to jump up and dart for their guns before the ghost appeared before Dean. He was still five feet away from his duffel bag, where he kept his shotgun and salt rounds, and only had enough time to brace for impact as the ghost flung him across the room. He landed with a heavy thud on the shaggy carpet.

The ghost turned toward Sam then. It was that of an elderly woman, maybe in her sixties. She had salt white hair and wore no makeup, and a huge silver cross dangled from her sagging neck. Sam was only half surprised when she opened her mouth and rasped out a single word.

"Murderer..." she said, and flung the younger Winchester against the far wall behind him. There he stuck, suspended by the ghost's furious, unnatural power. Suddenly, she shrieked and disappeared in a flurry, and Sam dropped to the floor as Dean stood over him wielding his shotgun.

Dean hauled Sam to his feet by his arm, and if Sam wasn't already freaking out about the ghost, he would have been freaking out about the little electric sparks flying from Dean's hand into his body, pinking his cheeks. Sam pushed away and scrabbled to get his shotgun and bags. By the time he turned around, Dean was already at the door, duffel bag in hand.

By unspoken agreement, the Winchesters left the motel, climbing in the Impala and peeling out of the parking lot. Once they were safely on the road, Dean started talking, his voice raised.

"What the hell? Why attack us? We didn't kill anybody; the only things we gank are monsters." Dean stopped venting and shot a glance at Sam, who was sitting unusually quiet in the passenger seat. He had a white knuckle grip on his gun. "And why'd that hag call you a murderer?"

Sam's eyes twitched left and right, his jaw clenching. He was struggling to find answers to all of Dean's questions. "I don't know," he said. "It's not like I killed Jess-"

"So that's what this whole thing is about?" Dean interrupted, his voice incredulous. " _Jess?_ "

Sam swallowed thickly, then nodded.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean said. His eyes were locked on the road, but all of his attention was on his little brother. "You're right, you didn't kill her. So why is this ghost bitch hunting you?"

"Maybe it's not about killing, maybe it's about-" his voice choked off the word. He couldn't say it, not to Dean.

 _Guilt_.

"Maybe it's about the guilt," Dean said anyway, picking up immediately what Sam was saying. "Damn it, Sam, it wasn't your fault. You gotta know that." He channeled as much truth into the statement as he could, hoping he could make Sam believe him.

"Whatever. Let's focus on finding out who this ghost is, before she kills us," was Sam's reply.

Dean almost rolled his eyes. Almost. "Okay, but where are we gonna start?"

"Well you said they went to the same church." An image of Annie's cross necklace flashed across his mind's eye, then a Bible next to Men's Health magazines. They were all related, somehow. "Let's start there."

The Impala and its two passengers sailed down the road toward the church.


	4. Chapter 4

St. Peter's Catholic Church was a massive stone architecture with small spires at the four cardinal points and a steepled roof. Even on a Wednesday, there were still many cars parked out back in the huge parking lot.

"Thought churches were going out of style," Dean grumbled behind the wheel. Sam heaved an exasperated sigh. They parked far away from the back entrance, in a fairly secluded patch of dead grass just under the eaves of a large tree.

"Gotta suit up," Dean said, getting out and taking his bag from the trunk. Sam got out as well, still gripping the shotgun tightly. He glanced at it, then tossed it down in the seat as Dean climbed in the back seat, starting to undress. Sam paced, willing himself not to look in one of the windows. He couldn't have imagined that being an issue any time before, and wondered why it was now.

His eyes betrayed him and he stole a brief glance to the back end of the car. He caught a glimpse of long, tanned legs before they slipped into a pair of dress slacks. Sam gulped and looked away quickly. _What the hell?_

Soon, Dean was emerging from the black car, looking like he stepped out of a Giorgio Armani photo shoot. "Your turn, Sasquatch," he tossed to a flustered Sam.

The younger Winchester grabbed his bag from the trunk, suddenly overly self-conscious, and climbed into the backseat. He laid down on the warm leather interior and had to pull up his legs due to the confining space. He first wrestled out of his jacket, then his pants. He had to be careful not to stretch the expensive fabric of his dress slacks. Once they were on, he pried off his shirts, sitting up slightly and grabbing for his undershirt. That's when he glanced out the window.

Dean was staring at him. Wide green eyes, the pupil almost swallowing the color. Sam was acutely aware that the top half of his body was completely naked as shivers wracked his whole frame. Then the moment was gone as Dean quickly looked away, scanning the area for anyone else. Sam couldn't control his breathing as he finished getting dressed.

He practically tumbled out of the Impala, straightening and fixing his tie sloppily as he pointedly did not look at his brother, who couldn't hide the tinge of pink on his cheeks. The air between them was as heavy and charged as the atmosphere before a huge storm. Sam ignored it for now as best he could, tossing Dean his fake ID and walking out of the clearing as quickly as possible. He didn't want to dwell on what just happened minutes before.

* * *

It didn't take the brothers long at all to get directions from easy churchgoers and find the pastor's office. The pastor turned out to be a fifty-something year old man with a manicured beard and a smile so wide it stretched across his face. He had salt and pepper hair and was wearing a navy blue suit and tie.

Once all three were seated in the office, Sam launched into the formalities, his silvertongue handy as he explained that they were from the FBI and that they had to "cover some bases". Through a series of routine questions, the two brothers learned that all of the victims had either been regular churchgoers or visited at least once.

"I remember young Annie," the pastor said, his face saddening. "She'd had her kids with her, all four of them rambunctious and… not the best behaved. I'd offered her help..."

While the pastor launched into a story, Dean tuned out and looked around the office. Framed pictures lined the wall behind the pastor's head, forming a short line. One picture in particular caught his eye, and he nudged Sam's shoulder, ignoring the tingle the action gave him and the soft grunt he received.

"Sorry, Father," Dean started, interrupting the pastor mid-speech. "But I'm a little curious. Who are all those people in the pictures up there?" He nodded to the row of framed pictures, and as Sam ran his eyes over them, his gaze caught on one and understanding bloomed on his features.

"Oh, those? They're all the previous pastors who ran this church," the pastor said, appraising the line of black and white, then colored photographs, the one on the end being a picture of himself. The picture before his was strikingly familiar. Salt white hair, no makeup, and the gaudy cross that the Winchesters had seen not an hour ago.

"Can you tell me about the pastor in charge before you?" Sam asked with a hint of urgency in his voice.

"Mother Mary Eunace," the Father told them, not at all phased by their impatience. "She became the head of the church some time in the forties, I think. Everyone loved her, including myself. I apprenticed under her for the last ten years of her life."

"What happened to her?" Dean asked.

"She met an awful end. My heart hurts just thinking about it..." The brothers shared a glance as the pastor went on.

"She was found on the very steps of the church, dead. Someone had shot her in cold blood."

"When we're done with this, I think I'd like to pay my respects to her. Do you know where she's buried, by any chance?" Sam asked.

The two all but ran out of the office after getting the location and thanking the pastor.

* * *

Sam yawned for probably the fifth time in two minutes. He was having trouble focusing on anything as he held the flashlight out in front of him. It was currently midnight, and he and Dean were scouring the burial grounds in search of one Mother Mary Eunace.

"Sam, over here," Dean's voice sounded from about fifty feet to his right. Sam guessed Dean found the grave. He started over toward his brother, but suddenly his breath ghosted out and goosebumps erupted all along his body. His sleep-deprived mind barely had the time to act as he whirled the shotgun and blasted a pissed off Mary Eunace into thin air. He ran over toward Dean, who was barking orders at him.

"Damn it! Sam, cover me as I dig this bitch up," he said hurriedly, then got to work, shoveling as fast as he could. Sam picked up an iron crowbar from Dean's bag and duel-wielded it with the shotgun. In the next ten minutes, he fought her off a couple more times, but his reflexes were slowing, his movements becoming sluggish. Each swing of the crowbar left him a little more drained, and he started panicking internally. He risked a glance at the grave. Dean was only halfway done.

"Damn it," he said tiredly. The ghost appeared right behind Dean, and Sam's muscles ached, threatening to give out as he swung the crowbar hard and fast, carving her in two sparking halves.

"C'mon, eyes open Sammy!" Dean yelled. His face was twisted into a scowl as he shoveled dirt as fast as he could, the muscles in his arms and back screaming painfully. He tried his damndest to ignore it, though, because his Sammy's life was on the line. With that thought in his head, and the shrieking insults of the ghost in his ears, he shoveled even harder, gasping and choking out curses.

Sam barely heard Dean's shout. He was focusing solely on the ghost, who had taken to appearing and disappearing randomly and calling him a murderer. He heard the unmistakable sound of a shovel hitting wood, and Dean's yelp of triumph, and he had a burst of renewed energy, fueled by the hope that they were going to get out of this alive.

Dean scooped out as much dirt as possible before cracking open the lid to the coffin. He heard Sam inching closer and closer, driven back by the ghost. He grabbed the salt, dumping it unceremoniously over the corpse and searching around for the lighter fluid. He found it and began squirting it on the musty bones.

Sam was tired, so tired. By this time, his vision had blurred and he was a staggering mess. The ghost had stopped calling him murderer, but was now whispering evil things about Jess into the air. Saying how she didn't need to die, that he had left her alone and she had died a meaningless, pointless death. Sam's eyes stung with either tears or sweat; he wasn't sure. Mother Mary Eunace was dancing around the air, rasping out how Sam had brought the evil to her and how she was utterly defenseless against it. Sam was so, so tired.

Suddenly, the ghost appeared and knocked Sam into the grave, right under the spray of lighter fluid Dean was soaking the bones with. The liquid splashed against his clothes and hair, soaking in and getting into his mouth. Dean stopped abruptly, shouting Sam's name and hauling him up while he gagged. The ghost was nowhere to be found.

"Help me up," he said tiredly as he scrabbled at the dirt walls surrounding them, wanting to get up and out. Dean helped him, wincing as his sore muscles were pushed to the limit again. Finally, Sam clawed at the grass surrounding the grave and managed to haul his tired body out. He staggered upright, snatching up the crowbar and breathing heavily, trying to get the spinning in his head to stop. When he did, he was flung against the nearest tree. White hot pain bloomed swiftly across his back as he connected with the trunk and crumpled to the ground.

Dean pawed at the ground frantically, looking for the lighter he knew should have been there…

Sam stared in dawning horror as Mary Eunace flicked open the lighter in her hand. That must have been her plan when she knocked him into the grave, Sam thought dumbly. The metallic stench of the lighter fluid on his body was burning his nostrils, just as the small flame that flickered out of the lighter seared into his retinas. Cold dread filled his stomach, coiling low until he thought he was going to be sick. Flashes of Jess' face loomed behind his eyes, of the red hot flames that consumed her whole. _Fire_. She was going to _burn_ him.

"Look at it this way, Sam," Mary Eunace said, her raspy voice suddenly soft. "You always kind of wanted to die anyway." Her face was sad as she said this, almost as if she pitied him. Sam's chest heaved with fear and he frantically looked over to see Dean, frozen inside the grave, watching everything with a stricken look on his face. The sorrow and the fear Sam felt was etched into Dean's features.

"No," he mumbled softly, still staring at Dean. "I don't want to die." He looked up at the ghost, at the fury painted on her face. No, she was wrong. Sam wanted to live, because he had something to live for. He'd be letting down someone very important if he died. He watched the lighter fall almost amazingly fast, heard the ghost's satisfied sneer, and rolled with all he was worth to the side at the last minute. The lighter dropped to the grass inches from his waist, and his mind processed for a second that he wasn't in flames. He smiled and lunged for the lighter, grabbing it up and screaming Dean's name.

Dean was scrambling up out of the grave when he heard his name. He looked up to see Sam _not burning_. His chest constricted painfully, and he barely caught the lighter as it was thrown his way. Immediately, he flicked it open and as the ghost charged at him in a deadly rage, he dropped the lighter into the grave. There was a second when the flames caught that Mary's face softened, and then she burst into supernatural flames.

Mother Mary Eunace was no more.

* * *

Sam peeled off his damp clothes, tossing the lighter fluid soaked cloth into the garbage. His back ached painfully as he moved it, and he winced. He stepped under the hot spray, replaying the night in his head. After the hunt, they'd driven back to the motel in complete silence. Sam remembered the white knuckle grip Dean had on the steering wheel, and the way he would glance every so often at Sam, as if wanting to make sure he was still there.

Sam began lathering down his body, getting off as much of the lighter fluid stink as possible. He already knew he was going to be getting a headache something fierce. As he was washing his hair, thoughts of Jess began swirling, making sick little butterflies in his stomach. He couldn't go there, not now, not ever. The things he heard from Mary Eunace shouldn't have bothered him, but the thing was that _she was right_. And Sam had known it all along, but someone saying it out loud had solidified the truth and there was no running away from the guilt.

His thoughts terrified him, and he scrubbed at his hair with more force than necessary.

Once out of the shower and into a fresh pair of boxers, pants, and a thin cotton shirt, he made his way out of the bathroom. "Shower's open," he said. It was the first thing he'd said to Dean since they'd burned the ghost. Dean was at the table, downing a shot of what looked like whiskey.

"We're gonna talk first," he said, completely sober. He leveled his eyes with Sam's, and for once the younger of the two obeyed without resisting. He sat down gingerly in the chair, mindful of his back.

"...Yeah?"

Dean looked down into his empty shot glass for a few moments, organizing in his mind what it was he wanted to say. Finally, he opted for the direct approach.

"You need to get over her."

"Easy for you to say," Sam said automatically, and acid ate at the edges of the statement. It took him not even a second to guess who "her" was. She was the one he was trying his absolute hardest to not think about, especially right now. He didn't want to have this conversation. He found it unfair that whenever Dean didn't want to talk about something, he could clam up and ignore it until it went away.

"I'm serious, Sam." Dean's voice held an edge of impatience. "You almost got yourself killed tonight! Is that even hitting home for you?"

It wasn't, not really, but Sam figured eventually the post-hunt endorphins would wear off and he'd be left facing even more guilt than ever before. At Sam's blank look Dean scowled and poured himself another shot. He paused before downing it, and Sam had the fleeting thought that maybe he was getting buzzed so he'd have the strength to have this conversation. Then the thought vanished. Dean was a damn pillar of strength. He didn't have to rely on anyone or anything.

"Look, I know you feel guilty about Jess' death, but come on, man. It's eating you alive." And this time, his voice didn't hold impatience. It held desperation. Sam looked at Dean full on. His older brother had his expression carefully schooled so as to not give any emotion away, but his eyes betrayed him. Dean was scared.

Dean was scared. And it was all Sam's fault.

Sam buried his face in his hands. His gut was wrenching uncomfortably and he really didn't want to have this conversation. If you could call this one-sided lecture a conversation. He huffed a breath, and tried to get something out, to try and convey at least partially what he was feeling.

"I'll try," Sam said softly. "But Dean, I did kill her. Let's leave it at that. I don't-" He cut off his own sentence. _I don't want to think about it_.

Dean nodded, not satisfied but confident this whole situation will get better over time. But then he looked at Sam's face. The shadows under those brilliant hazel eyes were more pronounced than ever, and his face looked gaunt, even though he was eating just fine. He was still beautiful, no doubt about it, but Sam was always beautiful. Now, he looked wrung out.

"Come on," he said, getting up from the table and putting a hand on Sam's back. He'd meant to steer Sam to one of the beds, but Sam whirled, and was up in Dean's personal space in a heartbeat. Dean saw Sam's head bending forward, hazel eyes coming closer and closer, and then a pair of searing hot lips attached themselves to Dean's. The world bottomed out.

Sam was _kissing_ him. What-

The kiss only lasted for a second, and Sam pulled away.

"I'm so sorry, Dean, I'm sorry-" Then he leaned back in and pressed his lips against Dean's again, and Dean's mind was whirling. Something clenched and roiled low in his belly, and this was _wrong_ , but maybe Sam was so out of it he didn't know what he was doing…

Sam muttered a litany of _I'm sorry_ into Dean's pliant lips and wondered why Dean wasn't pulling away. He pulled back and stared fearfully at Dean, waiting for his disgust to show itself. He totally deserved it, he knew, that and more because of Jess, and his dream this morning, and peeking in the Impala's windows, and the butterflies he was having…

But Dean was looking at him a totally different way. He looked more confused than Sam had ever seen him before in his life. He looked unsure of himself. And it was Sam's fault again.

"God, Dean, I'm so sorry," he said, half pleading, and ran both hands through his hair. Dean was staring at his face the whole time, not really seeing anything, sorting out his feelings, his thoughts.

Dean had come to a decision. It was a shaky decision, but his Sammy was a wreck, and he obviously needed this, they both did. He looked into Sam's face, seeing the turmoil there, and suddenly felt the need to do anything to wipe that look from his face. Sam didn't deserve to feel this bad over Jess, over a kiss, over anything, really.

Lightning sparks erupted from where Dean grasped Sam by the back of the neck, bringing their lips together again. The fact that he was able to do this, that Sam wasn't a piece of charcoal right now, fueled Dean's desperation as he tried to kiss all of Sam's troubles away. Sam was alive, and he was Dean's.

Sam made a small noise in the back of his throat as he kissed back, molding his body to Dean's in an effort to get closer. The fact that they were brothers, that this was _dirtybadwrongincest_ escaped his mind the moment Dean threaded his thick fingers through his hair. Dean's tongue pushed its way into his mouth and he tasted the whiskey that was probably making this easier on Dean.

Dean was always in control. So when Sam was pushed back against the counter in the kitchen, he wasn't half surprised. Large hands raked across his lower back and ass and a low groan bubbled up from his chest. Dean pulled back from Sam's lips with a dirty suckling noise and froze, still not quite comprehending why he was doing this, and _why the hell_ he was okay with it.

Sam's pupils were huge, the black almost blocking out the gorgeous hazel. He was breathing raggedly, still pressed flush to the counter and gripping the edges for dear life. And Dean still had his hands on his little brother's firm ass. He slid a hand around a jutting hipbone, and up and under his shirt to feel the compact muscles there, experimentally.

"Dean..." Sam said brokenly, and a wave of white hot arousal swamped him. He crowded into Sam's space again, dipping to press his lips to an exposed collarbone and heard Sam's stilted intake of breath. He moved up to his neck and felt Sam's pulse thundering away. And damn if his heart wasn't working overtime too.

Unsure of his own movements, he brought a hand down to cup the growing bulge in the front of Sam's jeans, feeling heat and hardness there. Sam gasped and jerked his hips up into Dean's hand, grinding and moaning filthy low in Dean's ear. The sound seemed to break something in Dean, and he grabbed his brother's hips and pressed them flush against his own. Dean's clothed erection rubbed against Sam's, and sent shocks of pleasure racing up his spine and coiling low in his belly.

Dean started really grinding against Sam, and suddenly all thoughts fled either brother's head. There was no Jess, or taboo, or vengeful ghosts. It was all need and lust and carnal desire, and the friction felt _so good…_

Sam was making noises in Dean's ear, little moans and thready pleas, and his hands fought to find purchase in Dean's short hair. Dean picked up the pace, rolling his hips filthily and muttering curses into Sam's throat. If he was capable of any coherent thought, he'd know he was leaving bruises on Sam's hips, but neither one of them cared. He sneaked a hand back behind and into Sam's loose pants, fingers sneaking past boxers and down into the crease between his ass cheeks. Sam let loose a moan that filled the small kitchenette and coiled painfully between Dean's hips.

Sam's body was on fire. He felt his orgasm coming all too soon, pooling down between his hips and making precum soak through his boxers. Then Dean's fingers found their way to his hole, rubbing the tight ring of flesh, and he hurtled over the edge. His eyes slammed shut as he came, gasping Dean's name desperately and clinging to him to keep from sliding to the floor. Dean followed soon after, shuddering violently and letting a filthy moan slip from his throat as his rhythm faded out.

The two were left breathless and boneless, leaning against each other for support for a long minute. Sam was almost content for them to just stand there, breathing the same air, but then Dean straightened up and escorted Sam on wobbling legs to one of the beds.

Sam collapsed onto the bed, sated and so very tired. His mind wanted to stay awake, to ponder what just happened, and what happened during the hunt, and what happened when Jess died, but his mind and his body were fucked out. He expected Dean to go over to the other bed, but he plopped down next to Sam, the both of them crowding together on the tiny motel bed.

Dean sighed tiredly, and wound a hand through Sam's hair. He still had his boots and jacket on, smelled like dirt and sweat, and the front of his jeans were sticky with cum, but he just didn't care. He could take care of it all tomorrow.

Because right then he saw Sam pass out almost instantly into a blissful sleep, and for the first time since Jess' death, his face was completely peaceful.


End file.
